Bodice Ripper

by Lola Rebel

  She was soft against him, her lips soft and tasting incredible. He was surprised to feel her kissing him back with equal fervor, but he must have been imagining it. He could feel her hands moving on his body, feeling every inch of the muscle that had been hard-packed on by army life.

  He wanted her, wanted her so badly that he nearly picked her up and took her on the desk. He could feel himself hardening at the very thought. He lifted her up until she was sitting on the edge of the desk, and she pulled him in close to her.

  He stopped.

  This was a mistake, he realized. He pushed himself back from her gently and took a deep breath. He looked at her, watching her breathing hard. She had a quizzical look on her face; she wasn't sure why he had stopped, but he thought that she looked as if she hadn't wanted him to.

  That was dangerous. One of them had to think of her future. He wanted her badly, but he couldn't have her. Could never have her. He held his breath to still the beating of his heart, so loud he could hear it in his ears, and he straightened his waistcoat from where it had twisted while they kissed.

  "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have… I'm sorry."

  With that, he turned and stalked out of the room. He had completely lost control of himself in there. She was dangerous to be around, he had known it from the beginning. Had seen her and immediately known that she would be trouble.

  But he'd thought—or wanted to think—that he could handle it. That he could control himself. This proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that he couldn't. She was poison to him, if he ever wanted to be thought of as a respectable man again.

  What's more, he reminded himself, there was nothing that he could do about it. She was as high above him as the stars, and he could never keep her in a place like this. He hadn't the income, and wouldn't have it. To keep her in the manner to which she was accustomed, you needed to have position.

  He couldn't have her forever, and he knew further that if he were to try to pursue her, he could only ruin her for someone who would be able to keep her happy. He slumped back against the door of his bedroom and closed his eyes. He needed to keep control of himself, and that meant avoiding Mary Geis at all costs. At all costs.

  He turned the latch on his door and walked over to the writing desk in his room. He couldn't have Mary, that was certain, but he'd been brought here for a reason. The former Lord Geis had been concerned about something, and he'd brought James in to help him solve that problem.

  James had come too late to save him, but that didn't mean that he could ignore the problem. If he guessed right, then whatever Lord Geis had been worried about was related to the monetary issues he had already been trying to solve.

  He needed a plan if he was going to move forward. He could try to collect on debts as best he could, but the problem was identifying the others. Further, there were not many for any of the others. It would be akin to trying to build a brick house with straw filling in for the missing parts and too-few bricks.

  The solution would have to answer the problem of what to do about Oliver, and therein lay the rub. He was a well-respected man, and powerful. When he'd received the offer from a representative of Thomas Geis, James had wondered if he might be related in some way to the Colonel who he had heard about so often in his army stint.

  He had won more than his share of battles, and in a war that had chewed up men and spit them out more than any other before it, Oliver Geis was a man who got what he wanted. He had several thousand men under his command, and if he needed something done on the home front, then it would be done. Almost certainly, he could do it without question.

  The idea that he would need money was absurd, and further it was out of the question. Whatever he had gotten the money for, it was not because he was short.

  Which begged the question of what he needed the money for, and more importantly, why he had covered up taking it by murdering his own brother. The accusation felt strange, even as the evidence of it piled up.

  If he were to bring such an accusation before the court, he would be laughed out, and then very likely arrested as he tried to leave. The proof would need to be unquestionable and complete. That much was clear; even if he thought that the circumstances were suspicious, all that Oliver Geis needed to do to escape the charges would be to deny them.

  All of these thoughts swirled in James's mind as he sat, thinking about what to do next. Of all the things that he couldn't do, getting tangled up in a romance with a woman he couldn't have was the one thing he couldn't afford.

  11

  Mary

  Mary sat on the desk in the study and watched James walk away. Her breaths were coming in hard gulps and burned her chest, but that wasn't the hottest thing burning. Her chest burned, and she could feel a warmth emanating from deep down inside her, in places that she didn't want to admit existed. Not for a lawyer from London.

  She didn't know what had come over her. She'd been working, and then he had been so close to her that she could feel the hairs on the back of her neck starting to stand up and her heart raced. It was impossible to think with him there, and when she turned and he was so close something in her had snapped.

  When he had kissed her, it only served to cement that the feeling was mutual. She didn't need to hold back, because he wanted exactly what she wanted.

  Now that he was gone, the room seemed to be chilled, and she was suddenly acutely aware of how full the table was. She tried to climb down as carefully she could, to avoid disturbing the piles of paper that had been roughly pushed aside by her bottom, but she was quickly finding that it was completely impossible to climb down elegantly from the top of a desk.

  What had she been thinking? She'd only met the man a handful of days ago, and until the night before she had thought he would kill her. Surely she must have been disoriented by the sense of impending doom and near-constant danger, but that wasn't enough of an excuse. She'd almost made the biggest mistake of her life.

  Deep in the pit of her stomach, though Mary tried to ignore it, she wanted another chance to make it again.

  She stood up and tried to straighten her clothes, fix her hair. They'd been pushed out of place by their vigorous... Mary closed her eyes and tried to push the image out of her mind. Vigorous mistake.

  Mary tried to ignore the loneliness she was feeling. It was just a side effect of the mood she had gotten swept up in.

  James hadn't rejected her. In fact, she was glad that he'd done it. If he hadn't, then they might have both made a mistake they couldn't take back. It wasn't a comment on her, on his feelings about her. If it were, then it didn't matter. They weren't meant to be together.

  That didn't sooth the pain that gripped her chest, Mary thought bitterly.

  She took a deep breath and tried to think about what the right thing to do was. She should pretend it never happened. That was the right way to go. But she needed to clear the air with James and make sure they were on the same page. Surely he would understand.

  She pushed her way through the study door. It would wait, though. It wasn't yet noon, and she needed distance from him, to re-center herself.

  He offered, for better or worse, to cook her supper. He brought it on a platter like he had her breakfast, but he stayed outside her room and handed her the platter. Once it touched her hands, he turned on his heels and was gone.

  It seemed oddly cold, and she tried to tell herself that it was just the same as it had been before. The excuse sounded hollow. If this had been how he treated her before, then that wasn't what she wanted from him. She had felt closer to him before their kiss, almost as if they were becoming friends.

  But he was a man, she thought. She hadn't been able to forget it for a moment of the time that they spent together and it meant that whatever they were going to be, it wasn't going to be friends. Her greatest hope was to be his helper, now.

  She walked back to the study, on the other side of the estate, when she had finished dining. She could hear him inside. He was pacing, and she could hear the turning of pa
ges and shuffling of papers.

  For a moment, her heart seized up. She couldn't go inside and be rejected. She realized with a sick feeling, that was the most likely outcome, and she couldn't bear it.

  Then she shook her head. It wasn't a matter of rejection. She wasn't asking him to become her husband, or even her lover. She wanted to know if she could help him with his work, and if he thought that she couldn't then that wasn't any sort of criticism.

  She took a deep breath of air and held it while she knocked on the door. A moment later, James Poole opened the door and silently watched her. Her chest burned, but she couldn't move.

  Suddenly, Mary realized, she felt like a rabbit who had been caught by a dog. The way he looked at her was like a predator. If she let out her breath, he would make his move and she would be finished. She let out an unsteady breath.

  "Mr. Poole," she said, but then faltered and took a moment to regain her confidence. "Did you... need my assistance any further?"

  "No, Miss Geis. If there's nothing else..."

  He waited a moment for her to respond, and when she did not he stepped back and closed the door. Mary felt the gap between them opening, and she couldn't explain why but it struck fear into her heart like a thunderbolt. The door seemed to close in slow motion as she watched.

  She could feel her eyes stinging, now that the burning in her chest had subsided. She tried to tell herself that it was the pain of having held her breath so long, and the papers in the study had kicked up dust that was getting into her eyes. She hardly knew him, he didn't have power over her, to upset her like this.

  It sounded unconvincing even in her mind. She felt adrift, and she struggled to think of how she could be of some use. She had been alone for so long with her fears, and now that they were confirmed, she had found someone to save her, but he was gone. She was alone again.

  She thought back to the journal in her room. Why hadn't she told James about it? She closed her eyes. She didn't know, but she hadn't. If she wanted to do anything, then perhaps that was the right thing to do.

  She went back into her room and shut the door behind herself. In the dim light of her bedroom, it felt like she didn't need to be so strong, and it only made it harder to keep her composure.

  Did he hate her? Why was he acting like this?

  She laid down and stared at the ceiling and tried not to feel betrayed by his distant attitude. She did her best to ignore the hot tears that fell down her cheeks. When her father had died, she had been afraid.

  The fear had made it easy to cage her feelings up and throw away the key. She'd been stronger, been able to deal with the grief by putting on a flippant mask. It had seemed like nothing could hurt her behind the mask she had put up. It was like a shield against the outside world.

  He'd gotten through, somehow, and now everything was rushing through the hole that he'd left in her armor. She rolled over and cried until it felt as if there were no tears left in her. Then she took one of the pillows and held it close until she drifted into an uneasy sleep.

  When morning came she rose less because she wanted to than because she couldn't get back to sleep no matter how she tried. When she stepped into the hall, she was wearing her dress and perfume like a suit of armor against James Poole and the hurt he'd caused her.

  Then she heard it. From the main hall, there was the sound of movement. She was struck by terror and nearly went back into her room and turned the latch. She took a deep breath and pushed her fear down into her belly, where it couldn't hurt her. She needed to be brave, now, and face whatever it was.

  James never made noise. It seemed as if he prowled the halls like a panther, and she only heard him when she stood just beside him. The noise couldn't be him, she thought. It would have to be someone else, and if he hadn't had a change of heart then it was someone unexpected.

  She didn't know with any certainty what she expected. A burglar or assassin, she thought, though the idea sounded absurd as soon as she had thought it. Oliver, back from the war front to claim the house as his birthright, perhaps.

  Whatever she had expected, it wasn't what she saw. James stood by the door, beside a stack of luggage. They were all packed, and he looked ready to go at any moment.

  12

  James

  When Mary came and knocked on the study door, James hadn't been working for the better part of an hour. He couldn't focus. His thoughts were disjointed, with the glue that should have held them together replaced by images of a young woman, her cheeks flushed, and both of them breathing hard. He shook his head to dislodge the thought, but it just rattled around.

  So when the object of his affections came to the door and asked him if he needed any help with anything—of course he did. What he needed help with wasn't something that he was going to let her help with. But the words didn't sound like an offer for help, whether with his work or with... other things.

  It sounded like an invitation.

  He'd felt his resolve crumbling, and he'd had to refuse quickly, or not at all. When the door was closed, he knew that he'd been rude. Perhaps even hurtful. None of it mattered, because he'd done the right thing and she'd thank him in the end.

  He didn't sleep that night; couldn't sleep. Even when he closed his eyes and turned over, it seemed like when he closed his eyes, she was there waiting for him. Their bedrooms were on opposite sides of the building, but he was acutely conscious of hers. He could have pointed to it, like a hound.

  He couldn't bear it. The strain of trying to resist was too much. He needed to speak to Mr. Stump, as well. He'd assumed that Mary would know something about the situation, and she had known a bit. But now he needed ideas for who might know more.

  It seemed as if Oliver was the only other person who would know it all, but he would be... indisposed to explaining. If anyone else could be put on the list, it was the man who had overseen his hiring, after all.

  A few hundred kilometers between them would help to cool both of them off. Mary was grieving for her father, and he was going mad from their proximity. If they had a few days apart, then things would be back to normal.

  He had his bags packed already. It made things easy for him in the morning. He would have to walk into town, which would be a hassle, but then he'd be able to get a cab back out when he returned in a couple days' time.

  He didn't know why he had assumed it would be that easy, though. When Mary stormed into the room, he thought he could see a hurt look on her face that must have been his imagination. If it weren't his imagination... that worried him more. Couldn't she understand that he was doing all of this for her?

  "Mr. Poole! What is going on here?"

  "Mary," he began. He could already hear a hundred different retorts, each one more convincing than the last, but he continued anyways. "I have to go into London for a couple of days. I need to speak to your father's solicitor, and I should check on my flat, as well. I'll only be a few days."

  She looked at him, her jaw clenching and unclenching. He watched her, trying to keep his distance. The first few days, he had been unnerved and frustrated by her temper, but now he saw that she could be quite pretty when she was angry. He blinked and tried not to be attracted to her, but he knew it was useless.

  Then something in her face changed. For a moment he nearly felt relieved, but he knew better than that now. She was not a woman for whom things didn't work out, and if she wanted something then she was going to get it. It was only a matter of time. If she had decided to accept his decision, it wasn't because he was getting what he wanted. She'd figured out a way around him.

  "Very well," she said, making a show of giving in. That sealed it, he thought. "I suppose I'll just have to go to London as well."

  There it was. "No."

  "I don't think you'll be able to stop me, Mr. Poole."

  She made it sound almost apologetic, but he knew better than to believe that. He could see the triumph on her face, in the smile that she tried to turn down at her cheeks. He turned the problem over in
his mind, trying to see it from all angles. What he saw was that she was going to get her way in the end, like it or not.

  She was right, he wouldn't be able to stop her, short of bodily tying her to a chair for the next three days. If she decided to follow, she would follow. Her family was not as well-off as they had been only twelve months ago, but she could easily afford a train ticket. She had won, he decided. With a sigh, he looked into her eyes.

  "You're right. I can't stop you, Mary. I still think you should stay."

  "You're entitled to think whatever you like, James, but I'm coming."

  His name sounded strange when she said it, and he couldn't put his finger on why. He wanted to hear it again to make sure.

  When she came back with a small bag packed and wearing a dress that would be decidedly uncomfortable for a several-kilometer walk down the road, he asked her about it.

  Apparently, he'd been wrong. They had a horseless carriage after all. It kicked and sputtered beneath him, but it ran first try.

  The train ride itself was agony. They had been put into the same sitting room, and James hadn't been able to bring himself to protest it. It was getting harder and harder to resist his desire to be with her, and he could tell that it was chafing for Mary as well.

  It was the right thing to do, to leave her alone. He tried to take some confidence in that. What did his feelings matter in that?

  Her perfume, which seemed to fill the seats and created an intoxicating haze, begged to differ, and he struggled to think clearly. More than anything, he wanted to have her, and have her right there. He had to grip the seat of the bench so hard that it seemed as if his fingers might snap themselves in half.

  But somehow, he managed to make it through.

  They came out of the train, having spoken no more than a dozen words between themselves. James would be in London for a couple of days. Until then, he would do what he could to put as much distance between himself and Mary Geis as possible.